Somewhat Deranged

I would never declare that I wasn't a touch crazy. Goes with the turf. When the slogging gets difficult I carry up frozen condensed juice, that I mix with rainwater; less weight, and I have to have my juice to re-hydrate, as the house is very dry; so dry my fingers crack and my lips become painful. The wind freshens, a lofty sound, high in the stick trees, and the house shakes a bit. I had to get home, to secure my place in the elements; and I needed some things: clean long underwear, the solace of solitude. So many false starts this week, dealing with sub-contractors, dealing with board members, trying to get something done. Thank god we got the vault completely re-organized, otherwise I'd feel like I hadn't accomplished anything. It's beautiful, what we did in there, the space is completely changed and so much more efficient. We found one of the four things in the permanent collection that I had not been able to track down. D and I painted a wall, finally, with the new red, and I actually did influence the selection, they went with Burning Bush, when I kept referring to two of the final three as Corvette Red. It worked. I'm beginning to get a handle on this, the way you influence decisions. It's so nice to get home, and be able to think about commas in peace. False starts. Spare me the bullshit, our failures are just a learning curve; you either get the point or bleed out on the side of the road. If I'm home, I either read or write; if I'm in town, there are other options. Dangle that on a stick. You could probably draw some conclusions. Would you rather do one thing or another? I mean, seriously, would you? If so, that leads in another direction and to further consideration. Yesterday D realized I'd tipped over the edge, a week in town, a dead vehicle, and that I needed the ridge for a few days or I'd become completely useless. He drove me out to the bottom of my hill. I couldn't remember, exactly, what supplies I had there, so I went over to Kroger and bought some things, loaded my pack and the canvas bag I carry in my off-hand. The driveway is half-frozen, must be 33 or 34 degrees and there are still traces of snow in the lee of the trees. Real friends are those that will drive 17 miles into the woods and deposit you at the bottom of a hill. I don't even get the mail (I forgot), I just shoulder my pack and assume the posture of a Buddhist monk climbing to his cave. A certain hunch. D drives away, and I can hear him for a mile or more, as I walk up the hill, the way sound plays in these hollows. I stop a great many times because I'm carrying a heavy load. Home is an illusion, I know that. But if I could just get there, I'd be a part of that illusion. All is as I had left it. I build a small hot fire from the remnants of an oak table I dug out from the furniture store dumpster, make a chorizo from a pound of ground pork, and fry up a mixture of that, with onions and potatoes, red pepper, and four eggs. Excellent fare. A dram or two of whiskey, as a restorative, and I feel almost human. In so far as feeling helps the case. Too tired to wonder about that. A nap, then back up just after midnight to start writing, replaying the week in my mind. Selective hearing stands out, as a major theme. Getting the main gallery ready for the Sunday event, an afternoon tea with a talk about heart care, was a Herculean task that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Supposing I have enemies. I'm sure I must. My former father-in-law? Whoever that actor was, in the production of "Camelot" we did at the Cape Playhouse, when we 'forgot' to wedge the chocks under the rolling platform that carried the tree he jumped into to sing a song when he first sighted Guinevere? (A horribly funny sequence in which his momentum sailed the platform, and him, off stage, suffice it to say he had been a total asshole.) Certainly several poets whose work I declined to publish. An entire generation of younger janitors that I dismissed, publicly, as being under-qualified. More likely I'm just considered slightly eccentric by anyone who has even a vague knowledge of my lifestyle. It's going to rain, you can smell it, so I take a walk, before the ground thaws completely, down to the mailbox. A double issue of the New Yorker, various cable offerings, and a Visa statement which indicates that I'm completely out of debt. It's true I still owe certain favors, but they're more in the realm of barter: I'll pick you up at the airport in Columbus if you'll drive me to the bottom of the hill, I'll listen to you if you'll listen to me, I'll trade you a lovely slab of Black Walnut for one of those spoons you carve so lovingly. What isn't said is the thing. Two crows exchanging gossip, three deer working up the slope on the opposite side of the hollow, the fragile crust on which we base assumptions. I hope no one calls. I'm not sure I could be coherent. And I hate to sound stupid.